


A Little Bit of Irritation

by thecount



Series: Irritation [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Closeted Character, Explicit Sexual Content, Lots of dialogue, M/M, Mentions of homophobia, My First Work in This Fandom, POV Greg, Post-Reichenbach, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, honour killing, my first fic on this archive, no-canon character suicide, some of it isn't, some of this is supposed to be funny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:46:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecount/pseuds/thecount
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My brother jumped off a rooftop yesterday. I should be at home, calling relatives and meeting the vicar. Instead I am here, doing my utmost to reassure you. The correct conclusion is clearly that your wellbeing means nothing to me."</p>
<p>Greg didn't know what to say to that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> MI5 and the Security Service are one and the same.
> 
> I’ve put warnings in the tags but please be aware there is brief mention of a non-canon character’s suicide and equally brief discussion of a related honour killing. A character is closeted and unashamed about it, there is reference to British gay culture and conditions in the 80s and mention of homophobia.

The day that Sherlock Holmes jumped off a building on Giltspur Street, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was called into a meeting with his Chief Inspector, Chief Constable and the Assistant Commissioner responsible for CID.

Beforehand, he was asked if he would like to have an independent observer present and was given an hour to find one, which proved surprisingly difficult. Gregson was obviously out – his head was next on the chopping block – and Sally Donovan wasn’t exactly “independent” either. Everyone else in the office refused to meet his gaze, shit-scared for their own jobs, let alone his. Greg ended up calling in the department’s union rep, deciding that the annual fees he paid may as well be put to use. It was humiliating, being verbally eviscerated in front of a junior officer, but Greg was intimidated enough to value the presence of anyone who didn’t want him tattooed with the word _scapegoat_ and summarily dismissed from employment before he left the room.          

That first meeting simply reviewed what had happened that day: Sherlock Holmes dead and identified by his brother, John Watson hospitalised for concussion and shock, the body of Richard Brook recovered for post-mortem (official identification pending) and the Metropolitan Police stuck in the middle of a media shit-storm due to Sherlock’s apparent criminality.

They established that the consulting detective had been involved in forty-eight cases and paid for none of them. The Assistant Commissioner ordered an immediate review and left the meeting early to request input from the Department of Professional Standards and report to the Commissioner and the Home Office. The look he gave Greg on the way out made Greg’s skin prickle unpleasantly and his mouth dry up completely. Promptly suspended, he was escorted to his office to pick up his things and then sent home.

The District Line train to the flat he'd bought in Ealing was relatively empty. Greg rested his head back against the window of the carriage and stared up at the head-height adverts for West End musicals, hearing tests and day trips to the country. He failed to register when someone got on the train at South Kensington and settled quietly in the seat opposite; only the metal tip of an umbrella waggling in front of his face prompted him to drop his gaze.

Mycroft Holmes. On the Tube. How strange.

‘Christ, I’m so sorry!’ Greg gasped, sitting up straight. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I find myself at something of a loose end.’

‘You haven’t been suspended too, have you?’

‘The wording wasn’t as blunt but I suppose the sentiment was comparable.’

‘What happened, Mycroft?’

‘It was suggested I take a day’s leave in order to make the arrangements required. Various protocols will no doubt be updated in my absence. It will be _such_ a waste of time rediscovering them all.’

‘Not that!’ Greg snapped impatiently. ‘What happened to Sherlock?’

‘Ah. Well. It appears that my brother was somewhat liberal with the truth. He created a series of crimes and then pretended to solve them. When he was exposed as a fraud, he couldn’t bear the humiliation and opted for ... a swift exit.’

‘There’s just no way that Sherlock is— _was_ —a fraud.’

Mycroft shifted his head slightly. It could just have easily been a nod of agreement or a disputing twitch. ‘Not fraudulent in all ways,’ he said slowly. ‘But he certainly pulled the wool over a number of eyes.’

Greg sighed and rubbed tired hands over his face. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I know people thought you hated each other but that wasn’t true. Not really.’

‘Now there I must correct you,’ Mycroft replied, meeting Greg’s eye properly for the first time, the malevolence of his expression repulsive. ‘Sherlock loathed me. He deliberately endangered people’s lives just to look clever, or make a point, or simply to _piss me off_.’

Greg sat back, horrified. ‘Steady on, mate, it wasn’t that bad.’

‘It absolutely was. And I loathed him too, you know. In fact, I told Moriarty as much when I had the opportunity to talk to him.’

‘You _talked_ to James Moriarty?’

‘On a number of occasions. You don’t think someone like him flew under our radar, do you?’

‘Well, no. I suppose not. But surely that means this Richard Brook business can’t last. There must be some sort of paper trail if you’d been keeping track of Moriarty.’

‘There must be, mustn’t there?’

‘Thank god for that!’

Mycroft leaned both hands on his umbrella handle and propped his chin on top of the lot. He peered up at Greg with such benign whimsicality it seemed illogical that his previous expression had existed at all. ‘Whether the public will ever be informed depends on a number of factors. You mustn’t panic, Gregory. Please just stay at home tonight. Draw the curtains, get some rest and see what tomorrow brings.’

‘Yeah, right. Okay. That’s easy for you to say. How can I contact you if I need to?’

‘It’s best to keep chatter to a minimum, don’t you think? I will see you soon, you have my word.’

‘Mycroft?’

‘Gregory.’

‘Will you be okay? With your work and everything. I know you can’t talk about details but ... do you need some help with the funeral arrangements or anything?’

Mycroft stood up abruptly, clutching on to a nearby handrail with the white knuckles of a man unfamiliar with Underground travel. The wheels of the train clacked loudly as it swayed around a bend in the tunnel. ‘I’m fine. Moriarty is dead, apparently by his own hand, which clears my schedule nicely and is distinctly pleasing to the powers that be. If Sherlock wasn’t such an appalling attention-seeker they’d be ecstatic.’

‘Okay.’ Greg decided not to press any further. ‘Well do stay in touch. And, again, I’m sorry.’

‘You are _not_ the person who should be apologising.’

‘It’s not an apology, Mycroft. It’s _sympathy!_ ’

‘An unwarranted emotion if ever the was one.’ His head turned towards the sliding doors as the train pulled into a station. ‘This is my stop.’

Greg automatically stood to bid him goodbye. A jerk of the brakes made them stagger and clutch instinctively at each other’s forearms, both offering and seeking balance. Mycroft’s umbrella clattered to the floor. They held on until the train had come to a standstill before letting go and stepping away. Greg recognised the glance he’d been given. It was one he’d seen Mycroft shoot in his direction on several occasions, the last being when Greg had mentioned the divorce. _Will you be sensible about this? Please make my life easier by not making me worry about you as well as everything else. It would be such a bonus compared to what I’m used to._

If Greg was honest with himself, he’d probably be a lot less level-headed if it wasn’t for Mycroft Holmes’s speaking silences. He shrugged, offered a reassuring half smile in return and bent to retrieve the umbrella. By the time he’d straightened up again the man had gone.

Once home, coat and shoes off, brolly propped up by the door, Greg began to ponder Mycroft’s words. Sherlock had fooled people. Moriarty believed that Sherlock and Mycroft genuinely couldn’t stand each other. People were listening. He should stay inside and draw the curtains. Mycroft’s job was easier now. There was no need to panic. Sympathy was not required.

Something was obviously going on, and he was clearly being asked to carry on as normal and not start out on a fishing expedition while he was suspended. Greg sighed deeply, made tea and proceeded to do exactly as he was told. He had a bath, he called his children to reassure them that he was fine and he watched a dreadful episode of Midsomer Murders on the telly before going to bed.

 

* * *

 

The following day, at eight in the morning, the doorbell rang. Greg was sat on the sofa with a mug of coffee and his laptop appropriately positioned, simultaneously reading the Daily Mail Website of Doom and watching the BBC’s far less hysterical version on their news channel. On entering the sitting room, Mycroft took the scene in at a glance and sneered at the Mail’s picture of Sherlock in his deerstalker cap.

‘He hated the publicity, actually,’ Greg said.

‘Oh, please. If that was true, he wouldn’t have taken to text messaging journalists during televised press conferences. And if he’d really wanted John to cease writing that ridiculous blog, it would only have taken a single genuine request.’

Greg winced internally at the memory of Sherlock’s antics and conceded the point. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘It’s more a matter of what I can do for you. I’ve some information for you to present at the inevitable meeting with your Professional Standards Department. I’ve also arranged for one of the MI5 personnel chaps to come with you.’

‘ _What?_ ’

‘Yes, it’s the simplest solution.’

‘What is?’

Mycroft did something with his shoulders that conveyed a sense of overwhelming weariness. ‘Shall we sit down?’

Greg leaped into action, shifting his computer to the coffee table and offering a choice of sofa or chair. To his surprise, Mycroft passed him a black, leather briefcase, took off his coat and jacket, passed them over too and collapsed full-length on the sofa in a manner painfully reminiscent of Sherlock. Greg, although a father of two, never ceased to be amazed at the variety of ways in which shared genes chose to express themselves.

‘What’s the simplest solution, and why does it involve MI5?’ he asked firmly, hoping Mycroft wasn’t about to start muttering about his mind palace or telling him to hold his breath.

‘Sherlock has been contracted by the Security Service on a number of occasions in the past. For example, last year, he and John Watson were paid handsomely for the retrieval of a missing USB stick containing classified information.’

‘I’d wondered about that sort of thing but I didn’t know for sure.’

‘Well, you do now. The document you’ll find in that briefcase is the copy of the Official Secrets Act, which if you remember, you were asked to sign shortly before you first consulted with Sherlock.’

The date on the document was easy to recall because Greg’s Chief Constable had practically shrieked it in horror the day before: the first of June, 2005.

Greg sat down in the armchair and peered warily at the briefcase. ‘They told me it was because of the anti-terrorist training course I was sent on.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Jesus, Mycroft!’

‘Quite simply, Sherlock’s preference for cases he deemed _not boring_ was extremely useful. In almost every instance the police consulted him there was a perfectly valid reason for the Security Service to have taken an interest: the death of an American citizen, the apparent suicide of a female Member of Parliament, a security breach at a major banking institution ... need I go on?’

Greg swallowed. ‘No. I think I get the picture.’

‘You will inform Professional Standards that you were Sherlock’s police “handler”. You called him in when you thought there was something the Security Service should know about. He advised on the forensic detail required to solve the case and reported back on its progress. If further detail was needed, you met a second contact for debriefing.’

‘I see. And is that actually what happened?’

Mycroft closed his eyes. His tie had flipped back over his shoulder and he’d begun to toe his shoes off where his feet hung over the end of the sofa. ‘I suppose you could say it was. Sherlock never actually _reported_ anything but he was under surveillance so continually he didn’t have to.’

‘He knew all along, didn’t he? He even _called_ me his handler. When we were in Baskerville. I thought he was taking the piss!’

‘You’ll get a formal disciplinary warning and you’ll be suspended for one month without pay while the internal investigation is completed – for the sake of any freedom of information requests, et cetera.’

‘Well that’s just bloody great.’

‘Why are you so angry?’ Mycroft opened his eyes and tilted his head forward to look over at Greg, who savagely counted the four chins the unfortunate angle caused. ‘Gregory, you’re free and clear!’

‘I’m angry because I thought I was meeting up with a friend every now and then. Obviously, I was wrong. I was being debriefed by a bloody spook. Just let me feel stupid for a moment, will you?’

‘Fine. You’re being incredibly stupid so you may as well feel it.’

Greg looked down at himself and realised he was sat with Mycroft’s clothes draped over his legs. He should hang them up somewhere but he couldn’t bring himself to move. ‘ _Incredibly_ stupid?’ he queried hopelessly.

‘My brother jumped off a rooftop yesterday. I should be at home, calling relatives and meeting the vicar. Instead I am here, doing my utmost to reassure you. The correct conclusion is clearly that your wellbeing means nothing to me.’

Greg had no idea what to say to that. Mycroft turned onto his side and yawned massively. ‘I’ve worked through the last two nights,’ he said. ‘I need to sleep.’

 

* * *

 

Mycroft slept for exactly four hours, and then lay in silence, staring at the slightly cobwebby ceiling, for fifteen minutes more. At the sight of blue eyes blinking, and the creak of the sofa as he rolled onto his back, Greg made them cheese and tomato sandwiches and pensively brewed mugs of tea.

‘Cheddar,’ Mycroft uttered with something like wonder and sat up abruptly, throwing off the blanket Greg had tucked around him. For a man who’d practically passed out in his clothes he looked unnaturally tidy. ‘I was wrong. You are not stupid. You are a sly, magical creature who knows my deepest, darkest desires.’

Greg barked out a surprised laugh. ‘Oh, I wish,’ he replied before his brain caught up with his mouth. He bypassed his pathetically tiny Ikea dining table and plonked Mycroft’s plate of sandwiches on the coffee table. ‘I mean, think of the power I’d have if that was the case,’ he added, smiling as innocently as he knew how.

‘Yes, think,’ muttered Mycroft, grabbing the plate and sitting back with it clutched neatly to his chest as if partaking of afternoon tea. ‘Will you be joining me?’

‘Oh. Yeah. I’ll just get the tea. How do you take it?’

As they started to eat, Greg’s mobile rang. It was his not-yet-ex-wife, who had called to find out what the hell he’d been up to. She sounded genuinely worried on the phone, having seen his photograph plastered all over the news that morning. Greg suggested they meet up so he could reassure her and talk to the kids face-to-face after school. At fifteen and seventeen his son and daughter were expert internet browsers and were bound to have been given grief at school over their Dad, the pig’s, fall from grace.

Mycroft concentrated on his food so closely he was obviously listening to every word. ‘You sound very guilty when you talk to her,’ he commented mildly when Greg put down the phone.

‘Yeah, well, she can’t exactly take all the blame for our break-up.’

‘Of course not. After all, adultery is not the cause of marriage problems, it’s merely a symptom.’

Greg’s eyes narrowed. ‘Thanks for the vote of support. Listen, I’ve got to go soon. Do you want to lock up and see yourself out?’

‘If you don’t mind,’ Mycroft said. ‘I need to make a couple of phone calls.’ He reached for the briefcase he’d brought and extracted a mobile phone charger. ‘Where can I plug this in?’

There was something hearteningly prosaic about watching Mycroft cope with a low battery as he checked his emails.  Greg left him metaphorically tied to the wall of his flat and went to see his family.

 

* * *

 

Over the course of the next fortnight, things played out exactly as Mycroft had predicted; something that Greg couldn’t help being a bit annoyed about. He told himself not to fret and made a brave attempt to treat his suspension as a holiday. He went to see England play cricket with an old friend from school. He attended Sherlock’s agonisingly dignified funeral against the wishes of his superiors and tried not to rail against the fact that there were far more members of the press lined up outside the church than members of the congregation inside it.

John Watson looked terrible, propped up between Mrs Hudson and his sister, Harry, in a suit that looked as if it had been hastily bought for the occasion. He remained expressionless and silent throughout the service, during which Mycroft managed to pack a world record number of double meanings into a short eulogy. Greg’s favourite’s included “youthful addiction to chemistry” and “recently cultivated interests in hunting dogs and astronomy”.

They left the architectural splendour of St Mary’s church on York Street and travelled to Kensall Green Cemetery for the internment in convoy behind the hearse. Various members of the paparazzi dived for their motorbikes in preparation for a very slow chase.

Mycroft had offered Greg a space in the leading black mourning car and he found himself awkwardly squashed between an enormous lady in an equally enormous netted hat, who Mycroft referred to as Auntie Elsie, and the man himself.

‘How much did the plot set you back?’ Auntie Elsie enquired imperiously.

‘A little under three thousand,’ said Mycroft.

‘The flowers?’

‘Six hundred.’

‘And the cortege?’

‘Eighteen-hundred pounds, I believe. I haven’t yet been invoiced.’

Auntie Elsie sniffed. ‘Quite cheap, I suppose. For London. Although why you didn’t take him home I have no idea.’

‘Sherlock loved London,’ Greg commented mildly. ‘If he had to be buried, better here than in the country.’

Auntie Elsie turned her head as much as the hat would allow and frowned at him. ‘This one’s older than your usual,’ she said. ‘Civil Service pederasty finally a bore?’

Mycroft’s entire body stiffened with suppressed fury. ‘Auntie _really!_ ’ he snapped.

Greg smirked evilly and patted his knee. ‘You can’t help who you fall in love with.’

‘For heaven’s sake, don’t encourage her, Gregory.’

‘I’m sorry, darling. Funerals make me sentimental.’

‘Ridiculous!’ Mycroft snarled. ‘This whole _thing_ is ridiculous!’

Auntie Elsie settled back comfortably and directed her attention out of the car window. ‘Then I think Sherlock would approve.’

 

* * *

 

Greg went back to work and discovered the dubious pleasures of being rumoured to have _connections_. Those higher up the ladder resented the way he’d circumvented their authority whilst simultaneously envying all the things he could potentially (but in fact didn’t) know about. He found himself locked out of the usual flow of titbit gossip from superiors who were feeling avuncular or people who simply wanted to show off that they were in-the-know.

As with any large and comparatively ancient organisation, navigating workplace politics was a genuinely important aspect of Greg’s job. Every step in the cases he was assigned became a little bit harder to take. His hours were long, his solve rate suffered and his chances of promotion disappeared. He spent several months learning a sound lesson about what it meant to be nothing special.

All the time, although there was nothing concrete to point at, the notion that he was being watched remained. It contributed to his tendency to keep his head down and plod on. He became slowly convinced that if he kicked up a fuss, or deviated too far from the norm, it would make something awful happen.

Mycroft’s umbrella still leaned, unclaimed, against the wall near his front door. When he noticed it left behind after the strangely intimate morning they’d shared, Greg realised it probably held a listening device. He was familiar with the incredibly powerful directional microphones available for modern surveillance, and it made sense that Mycroft kept one on his person much of the time. Rather than seeming intrusive, he found it comforting. Someone was at the other end if anything happened. He might feel awfully lonely but he was never entirely alone.

Mycroft seemed to have vanished into thin air after the funeral. Part of Greg secretly hoped he was too embarrassed to show his face.

 

* * *

 

Six months to the day after Sherlock’s demise, a short article appeared on a little-known website that specialised in blind rumours and conspiracy theories:

 

_A tall, dark, faker apparently wasn’t a fake at all! It turns out that his thespian bête-noir, on the other hand, was a total sham._

_Will the Met cop to their mistakes? Will the tabloids eat humble pie? Watch this space!_

 

Within minutes, someone using a new account Tweeted a link to the article, adding _#sherlockholmes_. Within hours, the hashtag was trending in the UK and the original website’s servers had caved under the number of hits they were receiving. It didn’t matter; the rumour had been irretrievably released into cyberspace with thousands of words of speculation following close behind.

In the run up to Christmas, workers across the country were slacking off and happily browsing the internet for gifts and gossip. It became the main subject of debate at thousand upon thousand of office Christmas parties, opinion pretty evenly divided between those who thought Sherlock had to be innocent and those who thought he was just a posh, photogenic crook who took advantage of a struggling out-of-work actor.

Greg, who didn’t even use Facebook, was unaware of the brouhaha until he was pulled out of an interview with a stabbing witness and sent up the tower of New Scotland Yard for an urgent meeting. He walked into the largest of the conference rooms and was confronted by two things: the lowest ranking police officer present excepting himself was a Commander, and Mycroft Holmes’s wonderfully polished assistant, Anthea, had just said something to the Deputy Commissioner that made the man’s expression drop like a stone down a very deep well. He'd probably touched her knee or something equally crass.

‘Detective Inspector Lestrade,’ the Commissioner called politely. Greg had never even been introduced to her before, although they had shared the lift several times during his twenty-five years of service. He made his way to the foot of the long table at which everyone else present was sitting and stood as smartly to attention as he could remember how.

‘We won’t keep you here long, I hope. We just have one question.’

‘Ma’am?’

‘Since the death of Sherlock Holmes, have you talked to _anyone_ about the true identity of Richard Brook?’

While she was talking, Greg risked a glance at Anthea, whose whole demeanour screamed boredom, although she had, for once, put down her phone, and was instead inscribing a little side-to-side mark on the jotter in front of her.

Greg shook his head. ‘No, Ma’am, I have not.’

‘Friends? Family?’

‘No, Ma’am. At the time of the incident, it was shown that I had already signed the Official Secrets Act, and I take that commitment extremely seriously.’

‘Well I’m convinced, Commissioner. Let’s not waste any more time,’ Anthea drawled, once more attacking the buttons on her Blackberry.

‘But we still don’t know the source of the leak, or exactly what has been revealed!’ the Deputy Commissioner argued. ‘How can we make a statement to the public under those circumstances?’

Anthea didn’t bother to look up. ‘You’ll have all the assistance you need from the Home Office when drafting the statement.’

‘Meaning you’ll write the bloody thing and leave us to answer all the awkward questions.’

‘Not at all. This is a very sensitive subject. Of course we wouldn’t leave you in the lurch.’

The Commissioner raised a well-shaped eyebrow. ‘You’ll tell us exactly what to say, then.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘Good. You’d better get started. I’ll lead the press conference in one hour’s time.’

Greg stood for a moment, unsure as to whether he had been dismissed. His phone vibrated in his pocket. Checking around himself for signs of disapproval, he got it out to have a look and discovered a text message:

 

_Off you go – A_

 

The press room at New Scotland Yard was so packed with actual members of the press that the staff resorted to standing in groups around every available television to watch. The Commissioner revealed that due to unparalleled levels of speculation, the Metropolitan Police were to commission an independent investigation into the actor, Richard Brook, and the consultant detective, Sherlock Holmes. To ensure an unbiased investigation, law enforcement officers from  France, Germany and Spain were being invited to review the evidence before presenting their conclusions to the Met.

Greg watched, first entertained, and then worried, as he began to wonder if John Watson had been warned at all.

He rescheduled his witness for a home visit the following morning and tried calling John’s mobile number, which was no longer in service. Not knowing what else to do, he tried the number he’d been given for Mycroft years before. It went straight to voicemail, leaving him rushing for words at the beep.

‘It’s me. That was a magnificent bit of spin, and with that combination of investigators the case will take years to get anywhere, but please, for god’s sake, tell me that you warned John first. Er, that’s it really. I hope you get this. Bye.’

At an impasse, he couldn’t do anything other than go back to his office. He passed Sally Donovan on the way but couldn’t bring himself to stop and ask how she was doing.

 

* * *

 

Given that a number of journalists were still camped around the famous revolving sign on Broadway, Greg didn’t fancy walking out of the street entrance and making his way to St James’s Park tube station. When it was time to go home, he signed out the keys for one of the department’s cars and took the lift down to the underground garage. He really shouldn’t have been so surprised to find a black saloon car waiting silently near the lift door.

‘I did try speaking to John,’ Mycroft said as soon as Greg had taken his seat. ‘He wasn’t willing to hear much but I did manage to tell him that Sherlock will be exonerated eventually.’

‘That’s better than nothing,’ said Greg. ‘How is he?’

‘Still furious. Busy. Getting on with his life. It amazes me that after all he saw with Sherlock, he appears to have no curiosity left in him. He isn’t like you. He doesn’t keep calm and carry on because he thinks it’s the best thing to do. He genuinely doesn’t seem to realise there’s an alternative.’

Greg looked across at Mycroft’s profile, wondering how it could seem so familiar after such a dearth of opportunities to view it. ‘Why do you think I’m so different?’

‘In the _Oxford Dictionary of Phrase and Fable_ , under the heading, “Going through the motions,” there’s a picture of your face.’

‘I don’t understand! We haven’t spoken for months! How can you possibly have got that? I mean, you’re right, of course. But how?’

Mycroft sighed. ‘I’m not like Sherlock. I don’t see cat hairs on overcoats and calluses on little fingers. Things are a little less mechanical and therefore quicker. I suppose, if I had to pin it down, it’s mostly your unusually subservient manner. You haven’t invited your children to stay at your flat but you visit them regularly. Anthea informed me that you followed her instruction today like a robot. You’ve never tried to return my umbrella.’

‘All of which makes me an open book.’

‘Not quite.’ Mycroft turned his head and blinked at Greg in the dim light of the car. ‘It gives me something a touch more systematic than instinct to go on, that’s all. Over the years I’ve discovered that approximately ninety-nine point eight percent of the time I’m correct.’

‘Approximately. How _does_ your mind work?’

‘Is that a rhetorical question?’

Greg laughed. ‘Yeah, I think it had better be. For now.’

They sat in silence for the rest of the journey. Mycroft checked his phone every five minutes. Greg began to surreptitiously time him and was delighted to develop a hypothesis to work on in the future.

Once parked on Greg’s road, both of them stepped out of the car without consulting each other. He unlocked and locked the street door and the entrance to his flat with slightly fumbling hands, feeling the pressure of observation.

‘Excuse me for a moment, I must see to this first,’ Mycroft said as soon as they were inside. He picked up his umbrella, unscrewed the handle and fished out a small electronic device. From the inside pocket of his suit jacket he extracted an even smaller metal cylinder. ‘The battery is in danger of running low.’

‘I bloody _knew_ you had me bugged!’

‘On the contrary. This little thing blocks the action of any surveillance devices in the vicinity. The wireless age has made it laughably easy to scan for and identify any frequency being utilised.’ Mycroft brought a warning finger to his lips.

Greg’s face fell. He stood obediently in silence as Mycroft replaced the battery and screwed the handle back up before speaking again. ‘It stops bugs from working?’

‘Yes. I carry one with me to ensure I won't be overheard. I had reason to believe that some associates of Moriarty’s would be keeping a close eye on your movements so I took the precaution of making this place private. I’m less concerned about them nowadays, but it’s better to err on the side of caution.’

‘Right. I see.’

‘John and Sherlock were always harping on at how intrusive I am. I thought that _not_ listening in would please you.’

Greg shrugged helplessly, directing his gaze anywhere other than Mycroft’s face. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘But?’

‘No, nothing. It’s fine.’

‘Gregory?’ Mycroft took a step backwards, his right thumb restlessly picking at the ring on his third finger.

‘Oh, god. Okay. If you really want to know, I was happy with the idea that someone was there. That you were there. Listening to me.’

‘You were?’

‘Yes! In an odd way it was companionable. It made me feel safe. Oh fuck, I’m such an idiot!’

Mycroft rocked on his heels. His mouth opened and closed as he seemed to struggle with a response. ‘You’re not,’ he managed. ‘You really are not.’

They stood facing each other in Greg’s pokey little hallway. There was junk mail on the floor and a scuff mark on the wall next to Mycroft’s elbow. Neither of them were able to tear their eyes away from the umbrella Mycroft was still grasping in his left hand. With careful precision he leaned over and propped it back up under the row of coat hooks.

Greg took a deep breath and lifted his chin. ‘Oh sod it, I have to ask. What, exactly, does Auntie Elsie mean by “Civil Service pederasty”?’

Mycroft stared at him incredulously and then began to laugh. The sound was awkward for a moment before easing into a genuine chuckle. ‘She certainly didn’t mean that I’ve been fiddling with underage boys, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘Um. No.'

‘No! She simply meant that in my line of work there is a certain way things tend to be done.’

Greg raised his eyebrows.

‘I’m sure you can imagine the sort of terribly clever but socially clueless young man I was when I came down from Oxford and started work.’ Mycroft grimaced.

‘And?’

‘And a senior colleague took me in hand, so to speak. Taught me how to behave. What tailor and which club would suit. What signs to look for to avoid making a fool of myself. He was far kinder than I probably deserved.’

It was all very easy to imagine. For a moment, Greg found himself wistful for the unfinished Mycroft of years ago. One less buried under layers of worsted wool and dignity. The flipside of the equation, however, could have been a Mycroft who’d been caught cottaging on Hampstead Heath and offered an overseas posting with MI6 as a way out of a gross indecency charge. The thought of it was chilling.

‘We moved on. I became more senior than he was ever going to get,’ Mycroft said. ‘I was the one in a position to ... educate.’

Greg snorted. ‘You make it sound so much fun.’

Mycroft smirked. ‘Well, Auntie Elsie was partially correct. It did have novelty at first. But one does feel the responsibility. And times have changed for the better. Although, I did have to report one chap for the blinding stupidity of using Grindr on his work phone. Occasionally, they fall in love with me and want more than I can give but mostly they get bored and move on of their own accord.’

‘It sounds as if there have been quite a few.’

‘Oh, _countless_.’

‘Heaven forbid _you’re_ the one who falls in love.’

‘That didn’t used to happen.’

The past tense hung in the air between them. Greg’s heart beat so hard it felt as if his shoulders were vibrating with the force of it. Before he had a chance to move, Mycroft was against him, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed nervously. ‘At the funeral you patted my bloody knee and rubbed my nose in it,’ he said roughly. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry in my life.’

Greg barked a laugh of sheer relief and kissed him, drawing his head down with ease. They opened their mouths together, breath hissing between teeth and tongues, jaws immediately working for more. Mycroft’s fingers grabbed and released repeatedly, Greg’s cheeks, neck and ribs discovered and abandoned in quick succession before one hand settled firmly in the small of his back and the other clutched his head.

‘I didn’t know!’ Greg gasped, mouthing happily at Mycroft’s chin and neck. ‘I didn’t even start to wonder until you got so annoyed about Auntie Elsie. And then you were gone.’

‘I’m sorry. There were things—there _are_ things—to be done. Can we talk about it later?’

‘ _Fuck_ , yes.’ Greg backed up towards the sitting room. His shoulder hit the doorframe hard enough to bruise and then Mycroft was crowding closer, bending his knees and rocking his hips in hard. They groaned and tried again, even better, then ridiculously good, then oh-fuck-don’t-stop. Kissing became a matter of lust-slackened mouths held together by luck rather than skill. Mycroft pulled back with a ridiculous whine of effort and fumbled his fly open. As soon as Greg caught on, he did the same, pulling his belt free of its loops and dropping it on the floor.

Mycroft reached out and undid the lowest three buttons on Greg’s shirt. He spread the tails apart, pulled them around behind Greg’s back and then fisted the cotton in one hand to hold it out of the way. His other hand tugged the waistband of Greg’s boxer shorts out and down over his cock.

‘Don’t forget I’m older than your usual,’ Greg said, peering at the less than upright angle his erection bobbed at.

‘I don’t forget anything,’ said Mycroft. ‘I’ve never been happier about it.’

‘I suppose you’d remember if you had been,’ Greg joked weakly. ‘Oh, Christ. Yes, _come on_.’

Mycroft obliged, fitting Greg’s cock against his palm and pumping experimentally until an involuntary grunt and a thrust into his hand told him to up the pace. Greg’s head dropped forwards onto Mycroft’s shoulder, mouth puffing humidity down between them. He watched avidly as Mycroft shoved his own clothes out of the way and rutted against his stomach, cock flushed and shining with precome.

‘I want to suck your cock,’ Greg burbled helplessly. ‘I can smell you so close to me. My mouth is watering.’

Mycroft groaned. ‘Do you always talk?’

‘No. But you. I’m so fucking turned on.’

Greg’s legs were trembling with the strain of pleasure building quickly, his balls pulling up tight. His brain registered the quiet _snick-snick-snick_ of Mycroft’s fingers moving his foreskin, linking it to the waves of pressure over his frenulum and the irresistible tingle at the base of his spine. He was having sex. He was fucking deliciously into Mycroft's strong, hot, _male_ hand and watching him mirror the movement with his own erection. It became real in a rush and Greg came hard, cock pushing out semen, two, three, four pulses, all so sweet and sharp at the same time.

Mycroft swore under his breath and shoved harder still. As soon as Greg relaxed, he switched his hand to his own cock. He was desperate, jacking only a handful of times before hiding his mouth against Greg’s neck to gag the shout of pleasure.

There was a lot of come. And two pairs of trousers around two sets of very shaky legs. Mycroft appeared to be staying upright only by dint of leaning his entire body weight against Greg, who was still pinned to the doorframe.

‘If we could just make it to the sofa,’ Greg said eventually. ‘I don’t want to sit on the floor bare-arsed, I haven’t hoovered recently.'

‘Of course. I’m on my way there right now,’ Mycroft said, failing to move a muscle.

‘Have you got any cigarettes?’

‘No.’

‘Probably for the best. Come on, Mr Floppy, the sofa’s about four steps away.’

Mycroft instantly stood up straight and looked down his nose. ‘ _Never_ call me that again.’

 

* * *

 

Greg was in his bedroom, stripped to his boxers, considering a black v-neck jumper from GAP that his daughter had given him for Christmas. Mycroft had shuffled off to the bathroom to clean up, returning with his trousers back on but his shirt clutched gingerly in one hand. ‘Will this do?’ Greg said, holding the jumper up. ‘It’s got those trendy long sleeves that teenagers like to shred. I thought they might be necessary in your case.’

Mycroft made a heroic effort to look at the jumper. ‘It’s fine,’ he said vaguely.

Greg turned around to see what the matter was and fell into a similarly hazy state. He moved closer, an iron filing confronted with a rather powerful magnet, and ran a gentle finger down the centre of Mycroft’s chest. ‘Wow. _Hello_.’

‘Where do I put this?’ said Mycroft, looking pleased with himself.

‘Stick it straight in the washing machine. I’ve got a load of whites to go on anyway. Do you want to wear this thing or not?’

‘I do. For now.’

Mycroft didn’t even mention going home and there was no question of bothering to go out for dinner. He explored the kitchen cautiously, found eggs, smiled fondly at the cheese and made big fluffy omelettes with the ease of long practice. For pudding they munched apples and shared a bag of the smoked almonds that Greg couldn’t resist stocking up on whenever he went to Sainsbury’s.

‘I thought you’d have a Jeeves on hand to make your omelettes,’ said Greg.

‘On a public sector salary in London? You must be joking. I’ve got a security-clearance cleaner and Marks and Spencer when I can’t be arsed to do anything other than microwave. I eat at my club a lot.’

‘You must be earning pretty well nowadays, though.’

‘Even so, you know how it is. There’s the mortgage on my flat, the club fees are ludicrous and the house in Berkshire always needs something doing to it. I’m still helping out Mrs Hudson, too.’

‘You should try having kids. University’s going to be nine grand a year, if not more. Sheila and I didn’t dare argue about the divorce or we’d have spent our savings on lawyers. If it weren’t for me inheriting enough to pay off the house a few years ago, I’d never even have managed to get this place.’

Mycroft rested his chin on his hands. ‘So neither of us is harbouring a secret fortune.’

‘Bugger. I’m only shagging you for your money.’

‘Shag- _ging?_ ’

Greg gestured across the table with his apple. ‘I know things have changed in the twenty-odd years since I was anywhere near single,’ he said, ‘but this doesn’t exactly feel like a one-night stand.’

Mycroft smiled tightly. ‘It absolutely does not feel like one. Which is probably a gigantic mistake.’

Greg rocked back in his chair. ‘Oh, yeah, yadda-yadda-yadda, classified work, not enough time, you can’t afford to care about anyone. There’s no need to patronise me, Mycroft.’

‘I wasn’t trying to.’

‘I’ve had time to think about things, you know. It’s actually me who comes with a fairly objectionable demand.’

Mycroft looked genuinely intrigued. ‘Do tell.’

‘I’m not out. No one in my life now—and I mean _no one_ —except for you knows I like men. Not even Sheila.’

‘You were a faithful husband.’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s not exactly unheard of to come out in your middle age.’

‘But I have no intention of doing it any time soon. My kids have had a hard enough time at a city comprehensive school with a police inspector for a dad, and with me and their mum splitting up, without me jumping out of the closet too.’

‘I suppose the Met might not be the most open-minded of workplaces either,’ Mycroft said thoughtfully.

Greg laughed. ‘Oh, that’d be fine! I’d probably be promoted within a year. It’d be _marvellous_ for the equal opportunities statistics.’ He waved his hands in the air flamboyantly and pulled a disgusted face.

‘You would still be subject to the usual reactions.’

‘Blokes avoiding me at the urinals and joking about the way I walk in the mornings? Come off it, that’s nothing. I worked with Sherlock’s insulting voice in my ear for years.’

Mycroft frowned. ‘You seem to forget that I _am_ out. It’s not “nothing”.’

Greg sighed. ‘Yeah, you’re right. But when I was a Constable on the beat we used to see gay-bashing every week. And if that wasn’t terrifying enough, there was AIDS. I knew a few guys who got it back then.’

‘I was still at school,’ admitted Mycroft.

‘Until the _decree absolute_ comes through for my divorce, I'm not happy about anyone knowing,’ Greg continued after a respectful pause. ‘And my son, David, won’t be finished with school until more than a year after that. If we got serious, are you honestly happy about keeping quiet for three _years?_ That’s not living together, no touching in public, not introducing you to the kids and not indicating I’m in a relationship with you to any of my colleagues.’

Mycroft stood up from the table, gathered their plates and walked into the kitchen without a word. Behind him, Greg put his head in his hands.

‘Have you any idea how many powerful men and women are still closeted?’ Mycroft was back, and he was angry. ‘Bank presidents and oil chiefs? At least three heads of state that I know about. Until recently, people in our jobs who were discovered were often _ousted_ because we were seen as obvious blackmail targets, never mind the homophobia. But I have _never_ hidden who I am in that respect. Not once. And I’ve still managed to get into a position of considerable authority.’

‘Oh, fuck off!’ Greg stood up at the table, refusing to be shouted down at. ‘Not enough people know enough about you to care who you are! Depending on who you talk to, you’re either the Department of Transport’s traffic algorithm expert or you’re James Bond’s boss’s boss. Both positions come with a nice fat slab of anonymity. When’s the last time you had to speak at a press conference? Or pick your twelve year-old daughter up from school with a black eye because a boy in her year whose dad is in prison heard _her_ dad speaking on the radio?’

‘It’s the principle!’

‘No it bloody isn’t. We all of us have principles, but really, are _you_ seriously going to lecture _me_ about them? You’ve just admitted you’re powerful. I bet you’ve allowed torture to go on under your watch. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you’ve had people killed.’

‘What I do, Gregory, is _protect my country_.’

‘And what I do, Mycroft, is protect my _family!_ Perhaps, just this once, it’s possible for me to succeed where you failed.’

Mycroft’s eyes widened.

‘Shit, I’m sorry,’ said Greg. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.’

‘Perhaps this is what a one-night stand looks like after all,’ Mycroft said with his professional wry smile firmly in place. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the comments and kudos I’ve had for chapter one! It means such a lot when you’re stepping into a different fandom and finding voices for the different characters. If readers are interested, I’d like to expand on this story with further parts once we have more information from the remaining episodes of series three. Let me know if you’d like to read more! I’m also camillo1978 on Tumblr, where I post fan art, some of which is Mystrade. You can find the fan art tag in the description at the top of the blog.
> 
> I’ve put warnings in the tags but please be aware there is mention of a non-canon character’s suicide, a related honour killing, being closeted and unashamed about it and mention of homophobia.

Mycroft still hadn't taken his umbrella, and this time he'd left his shirt in the washing machine. Greg hung it up to dry and tried to amuse himself with the thought of resorting to a keepsake box in his wardrobe like a heartbroken teenager would. The trouble was, he couldn't quite find the strength to laugh at himself. Instead, he sat down at his laptop and composed a long overdue email to John Watson. _Are you ok? If needed, can I still reach you on this address? My mobile number is below if you fancy a pint sometime._

The answer came within twenty-four hours and wasn't exactly brimming with friendliness. _I'm fine. Yes, this is still my main email address. Hope you're well._ No mention of Sherlock. No new number supplied. Greg sighed and consigned that particular friendship to probable history.

That night, a freakish cold front dumped eight inches of snow over much of the country. The resulting chaos swamped the news coverage and kept Greg holed up in his office for a couple of days. He was almost certain the timing of the Sherlock Holmes story had been deliberate – if there was anything guaranteed to divert the minds of the British public it was snow – but he had too much pride to call Mycroft and ask.

Christmas arrived in a flash. The kids came over for Christmas Day and Boxing Day, camping out in the sitting room with blow-up mattresses and sleeping bags placed as far apart as possible. Greg firmly told himself he wasn't trying to defy Mycroft's expectations. He was surprised that Sheila hadn't objected to the visit until his daughter, Lucy, pointed out that her mum was spending the time with the P.E. teacher's twelve year-old twin boys _and_ his ex-wife, which was more than enough to keep her occupied.

On Christmas morning, David took a phone call from one of his friends and promptly disappeared into the stairwell to talk. Greg watched him go and then turned his frown on Lucy.

'He's fine,' she said. 'We're both fine.'

'Really? I thought you were supposed to shout and cry and claim I wouldn't have left if I really loved you.'

'Come off it, Dad. Half my friends have got divorced parents. It's _so_ not cool make a big deal out of it.'

'I'm sorry we haven't given you enough drama.'

Lucy grinned and walked over for a hug. Greg buried his nose in her hair and felt such an upwelling of happiness his throat tightened. Anything was worth going through to have moments like this one. 'No matter what happens, remember I do love you both, yeah? Your Mum and I might not have made it, but we did make you, and that's pretty awesome in my book.'

Lucy darted off in search of her brand new IPhone, dark hair swishing with the effort. 'Yeah, yeah. No need to get emotional. But cash is good, if you start feeling guilty.'

When David wandered back in, she looked up from the phone. 'Who was it?'

'Just Rob.'

'Gay Rob or Spotty Rob?'

'Gay Rob. That bloke he met at Dean's party turned up at his house last night with a present for him.'

'Awkward!'

'It was a lava lamp. They're going out now. Facebook official and introduced to his mum and dad.'

'No shit! That's so sweet!'

David scrunched his nose up. 'He's gonna want to talk about it all the time. Sooo boring!'

'Lucy, language,' Greg protested belatedly. 'Is one of you mates really gay, Dave?'

'Yeah. You know Rob from judo?'

'Wow. You're not bothered?'

David blinked. 'We've been mates since we were little! It's the twenty-first century, Dad.'

'Okay, okay, just asking. Were his parents all right about it?'

Lucy giggled. 'Not much choice, really. He had posters of Captain Jack all over his room and a boyfriend by the time he was twelve.'

It was Greg's turn to blink. 'Right,' he said. 'Our Marks and Sparks's easy-peasy turkey breast and potatoes are in the oven. What's on the telly?'

 

* * *

 

January melted into February. Greg got a murder of a seventeen year-old Pakistani girl that looked horribly like an honour killing. Knowing the likely lack of witness statements, he badgered Anderson with demands for repeated careful forensic examination and was horrified when the man was signed off from work for depression and stress. The new guy was good but he was less easily bullied and Greg was less inclined to try.

The family closed ranks, along with their neighbours, until the victim's older brother stuck a hosepipe into the exhaust of his car and tried to gas himself. His tearful hospital bed confession implicated his mother rather than his father. After the hardest string of interrogations of his entire career, Greg handed the case over to the Crown Prosecution Service and spent the night sobbing over a measly collection of his children's photographs with a bottle of whiskey for company. He booked the following week off work and declined the offer of counselling from his surprisingly sympathetic Chief Inspector.

Only a day later, Greg's mobile rang, showing an unstored number. He answered purely out of hope that it was Mycroft calling and nearly tripped over the coffee table when it actually was.

'How are you?' Mycroft asked. 'I saw the mother was charged with murder.'

'Yes. I'm knackered to be honest. Awful case.'

'I'm sure you can appreciate that I wouldn't ask if I wasn't desperate ...'

'But you need a favour,' said Greg. 'What is it?'

'Well, it's my parents, you see.'

'Your mum and dad? You mean you've got a _mum and dad?_ '

'Why is that so hard to believe? I was hardly discovered under a bloody gooseberry bush!'

Greg sat down on his sofa and tipped his head back into the cushion, suddenly fighting the urge to giggle. 'What I mean is, why weren't your parents at the funeral?'

'That's not relevant at the moment.'

'Is it not?'

'No. I'm calling because their house was burgled last night and I'm stuck in Belgium. Auntie Elsie broke her pelvis back in December and isn't keen to drive yet. I really want, I _need_ , someone I can trust to go and see if they're all right, and find out exactly what happened. I would have asked Sherlock ...'

'Surely you have staff available.'

'Words cannot express how little Mummy would appreciate a member of staff appearing in my stead.'

Greg did laugh at that. 'Tried it before, have we?'

Mycroft huffed into the microphone of his mobile. 'Never again.'

'Well you're in luck. There's no way I can resist the chance to meet the people who spawned you, and I'm even on leave for the week.'

'I know,' said Mycroft quietly.

'Oh, for god's sake!'

'I refuse to apologise for checking if you were free before bothering you.'

'Next you'll be telling me you worry about me constantly!'

'More often than that.'

Greg clutched the phone hard. ' _Mycroft_.'

'Gregory.'

'I am sorry about what I said.'

'All of it?'

'No. And asking me that just after I've caught the murderer of a girl the same age as Lucy is diabolical timing.'

'I know. I didn't mean to imply any expectation. And I accepted your apology about five seconds after leaving, for what it's worth.'

'Why didn't you come back?'

'I didn't think either of us was ready for the conversation.'

Greg resisted the urge to kick the furniture. 'Mycroft, let me make one thing absolutely clear, okay? You can speak for yourself but don't ever, _ever_ , second-guess my thoughts like that again, even if you think you're right.'

Silence followed. Then Mycroft drew an audible breath. 'It's amazing how like my father you sound,' he said. 'I think it's possible you'll get on like a house on fire.'

'I hope we do,' Greg said firmly. 'Email me the details and I'll call you as soon as I can. I need to get a car sorted first, though.'

'There's one waiting for you outside.'

'I'm not being chauffeur-driven.'

'No, of course. The driver will give you the keys when you're ready.'

'All right. Thanks. Speak soon.'

'Yes,' Mycroft replied. 'We will. And I am immensely grateful.'

 

* * *

 

The drive only took an hour and twenty. Greg ruthlessly smashed the speed limit as he headed westbound down the M4 in the inevitable black Jaguar he'd been lent before exiting the motorway at junction 12 and following the satnav's directions to Pangbourne. Heading down the A340, he took a left before reaching the railway line and the River Thames, pulling to a stop outside a 1930s detached house with a neat front garden. It was lovely and distinctly normal; one of a road full of similar family homes. A little white Scene of Crime van was parked on the gravel drive outside the house.

Greg hid his warrant card deep in his coat pocket, preparing to make it abundantly clear he wasn't there to tread on any professional toes. There was a nerve-wracking wait between ringing the doorbell and the front door opening; he popped in a sugar-free gum and chewed hard in the interval. The man who appeared was tall, with long legs and silver hair. He looked a bit like Sherlock.

'Peter Holmes?'

'Sorry about the wait. I've got a nice young lady fingerprinting the sitting room. Can I help?'

'I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade from the Metropolitan Police.'

'Good lord! They pinched our blu-Ray machine, not a safe full of diamonds.'

'Yeah. Um. Mycroft asked me to pop over and see how you are.'

Peter's expression darkened. 'Detective Inspector indeed. I'm not having another of his bloody minions striding about the place making my decisions for me. I've got a perfectly good wife for that. Bugger off back to London!'

'No, really. He said you'd hate that and asked me to come instead. He's in Belgium.'

'Belgium?'

'Yeah.'

'Well, I don't suppose anyone would make up that excuse. How do you know him?'

'I used to work with Sherlock. I'm so sorry for your loss.'

Peter raised his eyebrows. Grief-stricken wasn't the expression that came to mind. 'Lestrade, you said? Oh. Oh! It's _you!_ My sister Elsie's mentioned you. Come on in.'

The house was a comfortable hotch-potch of decor, from the 70s through to an internet ordered calendar showing pictures of somebody's offspring covered in finger paint. There was a distinct lack of electrical gadgetry and a very empty television stand in the sitting room. A blonde woman who looked to be in her thirties was busily twiddling a powdery brush along the edge of the top shelf.

'They came through the back door,' Peter explained. 'Mycroft's been badgering us to get an alarm fitted for ages but we never really saw the point of it. I'm terminally rubbish at remembering my chip and pin codes, let alone one for a burglar alarm.'

'Hindsight is a pain in the arse,' Greg said sympathetically. 'It would be a good idea to get one installed before you replace everything, though, or they'll come back and clear you out again.'

Peter stuck his hands in his pockets and tutted. 'I suppose you're right.' He turned smartly and headed down the hallway towards the kitchen, Greg following behind. He could see the telltale smudges of powder around the broken kitchen door handle and the windowsill. It didn't look like there were any clear prints.

'Coffee? At least the little sods left the kettle.'

'Oh, yes please. I left in a bit of a rush this morning.'

'Ha! With Mycroft chivvying you along I'm not surprised.'

'He lent me a lovely car, so it wasn't all bad.'

Kettle filled and hissing noisily, the two men regarded each other with barely disguised curiosity. Peter grinned and went to fetch mugs from a cupboard. 'I'll go first, shall I? Did you work with Sherlock often?'

'Pretty often. He said I was the best of a bad bunch, and I rather liked him when he wasn't actively insulting me.'

'I take it you didn't believe all that rubbish about him making up stories.'

'Oh, I _knew_ it wasn't true.'

'Did you really?' Peter pursed his lips in a remarkably familiar way. 'I wonder what else you know.'

'Not a lot. I wasn't even aware you existed until this morning.'

'I'm not surprised. Mycroft is so damnably protective. The silly boy even chose Oxford over Cambridge so he could come home for the weekends. Sherlock, on the other hand, couldn't wait to get away.'

The kettle clicked off. Unbidden, Greg headed towards the fridge for milk and passed it across. Peter filled the mugs and took the bottle with a murmur of thanks. He pointed at the sugar bowl and then called out, 'Linda! Did you want coffee?'

Footsteps and the rustle of a Goretex jacket followed. 'No thanks, Mr Holmes,' the Scene of Crimes Officer replied, sticking her head into the kitchen. 'I've just finished up. Did you want to come and see?'

'The officers responding to my call told me not to expect much. They reckoned it was pretty professional.'

'They were right,' Linda agreed, leading them back through to the sitting room. 'You can see a glove print here, and here.' She pointed at the door handle and an empty space on the marble mantelpiece where something had once stood. 'I expect there were at least two people and they were in and out in ten minutes.'

'Has there been a spate of break-ins recently?' Greg asked.

She nodded and shrugged awkwardly. 'I think headquarters are sorting out a task force at the moment. This is the fourth house in Pangbourne I've done in the last fortnight. They've had a go at Purley and Goring too.'

'Well best of luck with it.'

Relieved not to be moaned at by a member of the public, Linda smiled. 'Thank you! I'll see myself out. If we think any items on your inventory have been recovered, Berkshire CID will be in touch.'

Peter nodded and shook Linda's hand. She picked up her equipment case and bustled off to the van, pulling a mobile phone out of her pocket as she walked.

'That's good news,' Greg said cheerfully.

'It is?'

'Yep. It doesn't sound like you've been singled out, which means it's unlikely to be anything other than a common or garden burglary. Mycroft will be relieved to hear that.'

Peter poked a curious finger into the fingerprint powder and wiped it around a bit. 'I forgot to ask how well you know him, and Miriam will garrotte me if I don't get the details. Not many people get on with both of my sons.'

Greg bit the inside of his cheek and searched for words. 'I would like to know him better. I'm fairly sure I'd like to know him better than anyone.'

'Well he obviously reckons you're the bee's knees or he wouldn't have asked you to come.'

'You think?'

Peter laughed. 'You sound so pleased and you should be. The fact he isn't here, orchestrating the introductions to the nth degree, speaks volumes. We've met a couple of chaps for lunch when we've come up to London for the theatre but you could tell they were under strict instructions not to say much, and no one has _ever_ been invited home.'

'Oh,' said Greg. 'Well that's good I suppose.'

'When Miriam gets back from the shops, do you fancy going to the pub for lunch? It's the least we can do after you've come all this way.'

'Yes,' Greg said immediately. 'I want to hear all the embarrassing baby stories while I've got the chance.'

'Any kids of your own?'

'A girl and a boy. Both teenagers.'

'Their mother?'

'Put up with me as long as she could bear it and then got itchy feet.'

'Ah, then hopefully we can swap embarrassing baby stories without Miriam worrying you're going to break our son's heart.'

Greg ran a hand over his head and shifted his feet. 'I don't want to, but I'd be lying if I said it was impossible. I'm in a bit of a muddle.'

'I tell you what,' said Peter. 'We should have a pie and a pint first, and then if you want to, you can tell us all about it.'

Greg went to fetch the coffee. He spent a couple of minutes fiercely missing his own father and wondering if they'd ever have managed a similar conversation. The absolute confidence in themselves that the Holmes brothers habitually displayed was suddenly much more understandable.

 

* * *

 

'Your mother is adorable.'

Mycroft cleared his throat. 'She doesn't shut up long enough for a person to get an accurate impression. You've been beaten into submission by a wall of noise.'

'Don't be so rude!'

'I have no idea how Dad hasn't strangled her. Although, it's probably because he's too bloody lazy. And he knows he's not clever enough to get away with it.'

'Mycroft! That's horrible! You're not _embarrassed_ by your parents are you? I thought that tended to wear off in one's twenties.'

'I'm not embarrassed. I don't get embarrassed. I simply don't understand how the random assortment of their genetic material resulted in Sherlock and I. If it had happened once, I could account for it through some combination of my mother's intelligence, stressed birth conditions and a stimulating childhood. But twice? It's so improbable.'

'Perhaps your mother's side of the family is chock-full of genius. You could be throwbacks to some Victorian fake psychic type. Or a medieval witch who got burned at the stake for knowing things about people she shouldn't have.'

'Do you know, I hadn't even thought of that! I'll get the archivists at Somerset House and the British Library on the case tomorrow.'

'I was joking.'

'Has it occurred to you that I might have been joking too?'

'You're not, though, are you? You've already checked.'

'Oh, bugger off.'

'It looks like it was one of a number of burglaries in the area. Nothing unusual taken, no vandalisation or signs of a professional search. Your mum is pleased they stole the ugly clock your grandmother left her.'

'Nothing to do with me or my work, then.'

'It doesn't look like it. But exercise that autocratic nature of yours and get them an alarm. And set up a number they can store in their phones with the pin encoded within it as a reminder.'

'I shall do.'

'Mycroft.'

'Gregory?'

'They told me why they didn't go to the funeral. I'm not succeeding where you failed after all.'

The pause in their phone conversation lengthened to the point of acute discomfort. Greg could hear Mycroft's breathing getting heavier and faster.

'Come over and see me,' Greg said. 'I'll be home in a couple of hours.'

'I shall endeavour to be there by the time you return.'

Greg scuffed one of the car's alloy wheels as he was parking and sprinted at full speed up the street to the front steps of the Edwardian terraced house containing his flat. He rang his own doorbell and unlocked the front door, racing up the stairs in record time. Alerted by the bell, Mycroft was waiting for him on the landing, Greg's lock-picked front door open behind him. He turned and walked through it with rigid shoulders and a long stride that had Greg simultaneously thinking of haughtiness, cricket and sex. He followed behind, shrugging off his coat and shutting the world out firmly.

Mycroft was pacing around the kitchen, nosily searching through cupboards and examining a half-eaten packet of Hobnobs with disgust. It was obvious that he was furious. Greg moved close, gently removing the biscuits from his hand and setting them on the kitchen work surface.

'What the bloody fuck were they _thinking?_ ' Mycroft snapped, turning around to face him. 'Of all the idiotic, short-sighted, tiny-minded, stupid things to do! What's that poem? "They fuck you up, your Mum and Dad." The accuracy is terrifying.'

'They met me and they trusted me,' Greg said evenly. 'It was pretty obvious the moment your dad opened the door, to be honest. There's no way they would mourn Sherlock unconventionally. If he was really dead, it would have been Jerusalem at the funeral and your mum sobbing her heart out in the front pew, bless her.'

'They shouldn't have trusted you after five sodding minutes! After all we've worked for, it's ridiculous!'

'It took at least two hours, and I told them what had been going on between us. They have reason to trust me, Mycroft.'

Mycroft waved a frustrated hand in the air. 'My mother has let the Siberian tiger out of the bag and is currently pondering my sex life. How marvellous!'

'Is that all this is to you? A blip in the old sex life?'

'Of course it bloody isn't.' Mycroft frowned. He took Greg's hand in one of his own and began to examine the fingers carefully. 'But I generally find other people unbearably dim if I don't limit their company to short doses, and I don't understand how you haven't become irritating yet.'

Greg pulled his hand away. 'But you still expect me to come out of a twenty-five year-old closet and risk the happiness and safety of my own kids. For someone who will probably find me _irritating_ in a few weeks?'

'No. No, it's not that. It's that I refuse to be someone's dirty little secret. My entire professional life is about lying and cheating to preserve the status quo. I'd rather be completely alone than do the same in my personal life. I've always been an open book to Sherlock, for example, and mostly by choice. This whole business with Moriarty ... pretending to play us off against each other and expecting my parents to play along too. It's a bloody farce.'

'You never would have sent me down there if you hadn't wanted me to know, would you?'

Mycroft shrugged.

'Oh, Mycroft,' Greg said, reaching up with both hands to cup his face. His eyelashes fluttered and he leaned into the touch. 'I could never be ashamed of you. But I feel like one of those mortals in Greek literature who catch the attention of a god.'

'Which rarely ends well.'

'Exactly! Can you blame me for wanting to be careful? You seem to have forgotten that I started talking about where we'd be in three year's time after one shag! For a gay bloke that's practically treason.'

'Of course I haven't forgotten. I'm incapable of forgetting. It's been reason to hope.'

'We'll work out a compromise. We'll spend some time together and set a deadline. If I still don't annoy you I could tell the kids I've met a guy. Maybe let them decide who they want to share it with before anything else.'

Mycroft made a soft noise in the back of his throat, lifted Greg's chin up with the tip of his index finger and kissed him. It was hesitant and sweet. It made Greg's chest burn and his eyes threaten to well up, even as they dropped blissfully shut. For a long time they simply drank each other in. Slow, deep kisses turned into silent exploration of each other's cheeks and eyebrows and jaw lines. Unspoken permission was given to revel in each other's scents and textures until it became almost painfully sentimental. Greg was literally shaking by the time he took Mycroft's hand and led him into the bedroom where they undressed, gawking blatantly at each other without speaking.

'Better keep it simple,' Greg said, pulling open his bedside table drawer. 'I tested clean before the last time and after it. You?'

'The same, of course.'

They lay facing each other, Mycroft taking left hand duties and helping Greg to carefully dole out the lubricant. His eyes flicked up to Greg's and then down between their bodies. 'Here we go, then,' he murmured and gasped as they moved in sync to grip each other's cocks and touch the heads together.

It was playful at first. But feeling Mycroft's pelvis begin to thrust, and hearing the juddering sighs that escaped his lips, was so thrilling that Greg couldn't hold back. He fucked forwards and lost his rhythm, moaning loudly. Mycroft repositioned his hand and began to pump with steady intent until Greg found the wherewithal to join him. It felt fantastic, chasing each other's pace, turning each other on more and more until they were laughing breathlessly, tasting each other's sweat in their kisses and sharing out a bit more lubricant before starting the last dash to orgasm. Greg concentrated on finishing Mycroft first so he could feel the spasms of his cock and watch his come appear. He shoved Mycroft onto his back, lay full-length against him and came the moment his cock squeezed between them, shuddering with aftershocks for untold minutes afterwards.

'Goodness me!' Mycroft said, ridiculously politely in the circumstances.

'Oh my word?' Greg tried in response. And then they were laughing, rolling away from each other on the bed and straight back again for a cuddle.

'Perhaps this is worth a little bit of irritation,' Greg murmured.

'Maybe. We'll just have to find out. One thing's for certain, though.'

'What's that?'

'I'll have to start learning to keep secrets from Sherlock or he'll be back for John like a shot and putting everything at risk. That man is incapable of expressing his disapproval without shouting it to the world.'

'Does he miss John that badly?'

'He says not but he's always been a terrible liar.'

'How long will we have to keep up the pretence?'

'By my calculations, it'll take two years to finish wrapping up Moriarty's network.'

'God! That long? I was going to drop some things from my office into John but I think I'd better wait for a while longer.'

'I trust you to do what you think best.'

Greg smiled and turned his head to scratch his nose using the roughness of Mycroft's chest hair. 'I'm astonished to hear you say that but I suppose the feeling is mutual.'

Mycroft smiled at him smugly. 'Yes, I know.'

 

End of Part One


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